Fish in the Sky
Roadside railings
on raised ground—
and you presume a river
but find no stream.
So you picture the bed
of a railway track.
Nor sign of that.
Nor padded path.
Nor passageway.
The heart of another
is a dark wood.
Now a woman comes to mind
who didn’t care for me.
I loved her anyway.
And again that man
in a lea field
who says one thing
and means another . . .
As the main road gestures
anywhere—
a bridge over nothing,
a straddle of air.